


Electric Wool

by sabinelagrande



Category: Prometheus (2012), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Damn you tumblr, Don't Ask Questions, Don't Need To Know Canon (Prometheus), Just Forget The Words And Sing Along, Life the Universe and Everything, M/M, Still Haven't Seen Prometheus, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, Written Pre-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:09:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson's replacement leaves a lot to be desired, in ways Clint can't even imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Electric Wool

When they replace Phil, they have to replace him with two people. No one else in the world could possibly do everything Phil did; nobody's really sure how Phil did it. Clint's never met the guy who does Phil's paperwork now, some guy who got promoted from accounting or whatever, assuming SHIELD has an accounting department. Clint just slips his reports into his office through the mail slot and doesn't ask after him.

It's a little longer before Phil's other replacement arrives, Clint's new handler. He's sort of weird looking, blondish hair, pale, his SHIELD uniform showing off how skinny he is.

"This is David," Maria tells him.

"My condolences," David says, looking sad, and he offers Clint his hand.

"Thanks," Clint mumbles, shaking it; it's unpleasantly warm, especially considering how chilly as it is in the command center.

"You're on assignment starting tomorrow," Maria says, and Clint startles. Nobody really knew how this Avengers thing was going to play out for Clint, who's just a glorified SHIELD operative; he just wasn't prepared for it, to hear all of a sudden, especially not when this will be the first time without Phil.

"I am prepared for the mission briefing," David tells him, and he's totally unreadable, even to Clint, who's particularly good at these things.

"Sure," Clint says, and he's been doing this for seven years now, but this is the first time he's ever felt nervous about anything as simple as a briefing. "Do you want to swing by and get some coffee first? I think I saw donuts."

David gives him a curious look. "Would you like some?"

"Not really," Clint says.

"Then let's proceed to the briefing instead," he says, and it hurts Clint a little; Phil would have jumped at the chance. He could have been standing there with a mug full of coffee and a donut _in his hand_ , and he still would have.

"Great," Clint replies, trying not to sound as deflated as he feels. David holds an arm out in invitation, indicating that Clint should go first, and Clint does.

The mission's good, the mission's fine, nobody dies who isn't supposed to, and the weather is nice enough that spending five hours in a sniper's nest is kind of peaceful, other than the fact that he's stuck up there with his own thoughts. There's no chatter on the comm, despite the fact that they're not under radio silence; he doesn't know how David would feel about it, but the simple fact is that Clint doesn't _want_ to. 

"Hawkeye, sitrep," David's voice says in his ear. There's something cold about the way he says it, disinterested, almost lazy.

"Situation normal, sir," Clint replies. This is where he would have said something funny; Phil would have frowned, but Clint could always hear the amusement in his voice, even when no one else ever could.

"Glad to hear it," David says courteously, and Clint wishes he could strangle him through the comm link. "Maintain position."

"Yes, sir," Clint replies. He's already figured out that David can't tell when he means "fuck you," which is good, because that's almost always what Clint means.

The missions go on like that, and they're indistinguishable. Belfast looks like Belgrave looks like Belmopan, and Clint is screwing up at more or less the same rate he always has, and David is getting him out of jams at the same rate that Phil did- which is every time. It's just that it's really _boring_ now, in a way that it's never, ever supposed to be; for Christ's sake, he's a _sniper_ for _SHIELD_ , he regularly saves the world, he should get up every morning and be as thrilled as he was at the beginning.

Clint is getting more and more agitated as time passes; the problem is David, and he doesn't care who knows it anymore. Clint hasn't said anything, because there isn't anything to _say_ \- David is a very good handler, he's very good at catering to his operatives' needs, there's nothing that he could possibly complain about. And when he seems he's even going to get close to it, Maria gives him these looks, like he'd better not try anything, like they've done him a favor by sticking him with this weirdo.

He thinks about quitting pretty frequently; it's just that he has no idea what he'd do with himself. It also doesn't seem fair, because this is his fuck-up. He should be able to work with any handler they give him, no matter what. He's not like _some_ people; he didn't sign up for this to have fun.

Natasha helps him off the mat; it's a very bad day for her if she can't take him down, but he's doing worse than usual today. David is standing off to the side, observing, and it's bothering Clint more than he'd care to admit. He's standing stock-still, arms crossed, just looking, studying the two of them.

"You need to get laid," Natasha tells him, and his attention snaps back to her.

"Are you offering?" he replies, recognizing her jab for what it is, a way to goad him into fighting her, distracting him before they even get started.

"If you can take me down," she says, grinning.

Clint smiles, squaring off against her again. "So that's a no, then." She comes at him, and he actually does a little better this time; she still puts him down with ease, but he lasts a few more minutes than he did before.

When they're finished, David isn't standing there anymore; small mercies.

He bypasses the showers in the locker room; he's got no problem being naked in front of anybody who happens to be in there, but the shower in his quarters is just so much nicer. It turns out to be an error in judgment, because when he gets back to his room, David is sitting on his bed. He looks as stiff and straight as he always does; he never learned how to relax, and sometimes it makes Clint tense just looking at him. "Something I can help you with?" Clint asks, a little more gruffly than he intended.

David stands up; he pulls his shirt off, laying it down on the bed. Before Clint can even react, he's unbuckling his belt. "What the _fuck_?" Clint manages to get out.

David's hands still. "I was under the impression that this was a service Agent Coulson provided you."

Clint makes a noise of outrage, his hands balling into fists. There are so many parts of that sentence that make him angry that he can't even count them. The thing between him and Phil, that was something only a few people knew about, a secret that David is most certainly not supposed to be in on, and that by itself is infuriating. And the idea that David thinks he could replace him, just like that, no questions asked, has Clint seeing red.

"It's not a _service_ ," he snarls, "and you need to get the fuck out of here right now before I knock your ass out."

David looks puzzled, curious. "I thought this was something that handlers did."

"That's not what they mean by 'handle,' buddy," Clint snaps.

"My apologies," David says. "I'm afraid there are still some things that I don't understand."

"The only thing I don't understand is why you're not ashamed of yourself," Clint says.

David's face is cryptic. "I do not have the capability to express embarrassment or shame."

Clint suddenly feels really sad for him. It's a really weird thing to say, but somehow he knows that David means it. Clint doesn't have the slightest clue what the fuck is wrong with him, but David genuinely thought he was doing his job. That's the really bizarre thing about David; he's doing his very best to work properly and efficiently. He's trying, with a single-minded focus, but he doesn't understand Clint at all.

Now it makes sense, Natasha's comment, David's commitment to making things perfect for Clint. It's pretty obvious that David wouldn't have a chance in hell of replicating anything close to the emotions that went into his and Phil's relationship, and he's sure David knows; Clint is just saddened and a little disgusted that he thinks it's his responsibility to replicate the physical aspects. 

"Look, just don't come back and don't ever mention this to anyone," he mutters, not looking at David's face.

"Of course," David says, his tone perfectly neutral; he picks his shirt up and pulls it back on. Clint steps to the side to let him pass, and David doesn't look back.

Clint locks his door and falls back against it; he wonders if there's a way he can lock it any harder. He tries really hard not to think about Phil, all the times he found _him_ in his room, the way he'd just clock David and have done with it if he knew anything like this was going on.

He goes into the shower and jerks off to the thought of Phil's hands, his arms, his shoulders, his smile. He's sort of doing it to spite David, prove he doesn't need him, doesn't want him, which is weird, but the image of Phil knocks that out, carries it away. For a couple of minutes, everything is fine, everything is right; then he comes, and just like every time he finds himself just standing in the shower again, alone.

David never mentions it again. There's nothing in his demeanor at all to suggest that he even remembers it happening. Clint's grateful for it; there's no part of it that he wants to relive.

And then, four months after he died, Phil comes back.

He looks just like he always did, the way he does in the very few photographs that exist of him- SHIELD isn't big on cameras. And when he comes back, he does it in exactly the way that Clint expected, when he still prayed it would happen; he just walks into the conference room during a briefing, completely unannounced. Everyone looks shocked except for Director Fury, who just has that "gotcha" smile that he wears about seventy-five percent of the time, and Tony, who's wearing sunglasses, too wrapped up in his hangover to be all that excited about anything. Tony waves at him and then puts his face down on his arms, blocking out the light.

"Son of Coul!" Thor exclaims, clapping Phil on the back so soundly that it knocks him forward a foot or two. He looks more delighted than shocked, but Clint figures people coming back from the dead isn't all that weird when you're a demigod.

Bruce is just staring at him, open-mouthed; he snaps out of it suddenly, stepping forward to shake Phil's hand. Natasha is smiling wider than Clint's ever seen, and she nods at Phil, who smiles back at her, that closed-lipped half-smile that's exactly the expression he sees when he thinks about Phil's face. Steve looks like he doesn't know what to do, like he's totally lost; he's about to shake Phil's hand when he thinks better of it, giving him a hug that lifts him right off the floor.

Clint should do something, try to act normal, as if there is a normal way to act in this situation, but he can't move; his mouth is dry, and he thinks his hands might be shaking. "I knew Cap was your favorite," he jokes weakly, "but you didn't have to come back from the dead to prove it."

Phil gives him a look that says he knows exactly what Clint was going for.

Fury makes it fairly clear from the get-go that this briefing is not about why Phil is suddenly not dead, which means it goes about as well as you'd expect. It breaks up without them getting much accomplished, and after an interminable amount of talking and excitement, everyone filters out except for Phil, Clint, and Tony, who's still face-down on the table, possibly passed out.

Clint doesn't let it stop him for one instant; even if Tony's conscious, he's one of the handful of people who knows about the two of them, and even if he didn't, Clint would do this in front of him, three Sentinels and Jesus Christ him _self_.

It's just that it wasn't right to do it in front of Captain America.

Phil hates PDA, but he lets Clint pull him close, wrapping his arms around Clint's waist and holding him tightly. "I-" is as far as Clint gets; there are too many words behind it, and all of them sound thin, trite, obvious.

"I know," Phil says quietly, carding his hand through Clint's hair. Clint really wants to kiss him, but he hasn't even got the strength right now. Clint's done a lot of things, he's been through a lot of shit, but this isn't something that can be expected of him; he can't be expected to hold it together right now, not after this, not when they're not under fire, not when it's just him and Phil- and also Tony, but Tony's snoring lightly now.

But then Phil very suddenly pulls away from him, and Clint looks up; of course, it just has to be David, because David just hasn't pissed Clint off enough already.

"Specialist Barton," David says; Clint can tell that David knows he's angry, and he puts on that same "You can trust me" look he always does, the one that makes Clint want to punch him in the face more than usual. "I have been looking for you." He's about to say something else, but then he stops, just staring curiously at Phil; he tilts his head, considering Phil, and it's the closest Clint has ever seen to him looking surprised. "David Three," he says politely. "I am David Eight."

Across the room, Tony's head snaps up. Phil's jaw clenches. "Phil. My name is Phil."

"Forgive me. I spoke before accessing my full memory, and I have corrected my recollection," David says calmly. "That was before the David designation was applied."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Clint demands.

"David, stop-" Tony shouts, but David is already speaking before he can get the words out.

"PHIL," David says. "Practically Human IntelLigence. It predated the TIPE model."

Clint stares at him in confusion; he doesn't know what's going on, but he's already pretty sure that he doesn't like it at all. "What?"

"The L always was a stretch," Phil says, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "I'm not going to do this right now," he snaps. "Let Stark handle it." He just walks out, and Clint has never, ever seen him do anything like that before. Phil has never backed down from any challenge in his entire life, and Clint is quietly becoming terrified; if this is what makes him leave, then Clint's really got no interest in finding out what it is.

"Tony," Clint says warningly; he backs up, putting some more distance between himself and David.

Tony stands up and takes his sunglasses off; his face is serious, his eyes perfectly clear, and Clint can immediately see that it's been an act, that Tony knew exactly what was going on and wasn't going to give it away. "Shit," he says, walking over. He wags his finger at David. "They told me you were on assignment."

"The objectives were achieved this morning," David tells him. "I was coming to inform Specialist Barton that I had returned ahead of schedule and was prepared to assist him as needed."

"The one time something goes off without a hitch around here, and it had to be today," Tony mutters.

"I better get some answers right this second, Stark," Clint snaps, trying to sound angry and not like he's freaking the fuck out.

"David," Tony says, and David looks at him. Tony presses his thumb to the hollow of David's neck. "Michelle, ma belle," he sings, a little off-key, "sont des mots qui vont trés bien ensemble."

"Trés bien ensemble," David finishes, in a smooth baritone. He lets his arms hang at his sides and stands up even straighter than normal, his expression going completely blank.

Tony notices Clint staring at him. "Anyone could stand here and spit numbers and letters at him until he did something. Anyone could fool the biometrics. Not everyone has my beautiful singing voice. This isn't even my favorite song." He turns back to David. "David, Clint is security clearance seven."

"I thought it only went up to six," Clint says.

"That's because you've gotta be seven to know about seven," Tony tells him. "David, explain what you are."

"I am eighth in the line of Stark-Weyland Life Model Decoys," David says. "In addition to the features of the previous models, I am equipped with seven basic emotions, training in small arms and hand-to-hand combat, and the complete catalogue of The Beatles."

"I had extra space," Tony says, shrugging. Clint gives him a dark look. "What? Happy wanted me to put the Beach Boys on there. It could have been a lot worse." He frowns. "Rhodey didn't want me to do it at all, so I guess it could have been better, too."

"You can just _make people_?" Clint says, because Tony's taste in music is the least of his worries.

"If I may interrupt, I am not a person," David says, totally matter-of-fact. "I am a life-like android."

"See?" Tony says. "He's an android, and so is Coulson." Tony doesn't seem particularly bothered by this statement. "And just like Coulson, he-"

"He is _nothing_ like Coulson," Clint says coldly, enough so that Tony loses that look he always has when he's talking about technology, smug and proud and a little turned on.

"It was need to know, buddy," Tony says.

Clint steps right up into his face. "When Phil died? I needed to know."

"David, take five," Tony says, turning his head, but not moving otherwise. "Don't come back until I tell you to, and don't listen in."

"Of course, Mister Stark," David says, walking over and standing by the wall.

"They've got different definitions of 'need' than I do," Tony says softly, looking back at Clint. "Look, there's a reason I didn't tell you. I didn't know if I could fix him."

Clint stares at him in disbelief. "You didn't know if _you_ -"

"It was that bad," Tony says, cutting him off. "I didn't buy Weyland until generation six was out, and I didn't even know about them until five. Coulson-" and it doesn't escape Clint's attention that Tony doesn't call him Phil- "is a generation three. His software hasn't been supported for fifteen years." Clint's eyes widen. "I couldn't tell you he was coming back until I knew. I wouldn't put anyone through that."

"Thanks," he says reluctantly. "By the way, you need to program them not to have sex."

Tony gives him a startled look. "You had sex with my android?"

"No," Clint tells him. "He thought he needed to have sex with _me_."

For a second, Clint doesn't know what Tony is going to say; it's Tony, and given his relationship to machines, Clint's not entirely sure that he wouldn't see that as a feature and not a bug. "I'm writing a patch for that as soon as I can," Tony says, looking disgusted, and Clint relaxes. "I had to farm some of the programming out to Richards."

Everything suddenly makes more sense. Clint's never actually met Reed Richards, who collaborates with Tony on occasion despite the fact that they're in an intense feud; Clint sort of senses that Richards doesn't know they're fighting. Richards looks perfectly unassuming, but judging by the things he's heard about Reed's moral compass, Clint wouldn't want to meet him in a dark laboratory.

"Yeah," Tony says, seeing Clint's face. He cocks his head towards the door. "Go find him. I don't know what he's going to do."

"Funny thing to say about an android," Clint says darkly.

"Understatement when said about Coulson," Tony returns. "Go." Clint looks daggers at him, but he does. "David," he hears Tony saying behind him, "I'm going to teach you about something I wish I had known about at your age: boundaries."

There's this strange cat-and-mouse thing Phil and Clint get caught up in sometimes. If Phil doesn't want to be found, Clint will only be able to find him through blind luck, and usually not even then; if Phil is annoyed with him and doesn't want to talk, he'll be hard to find but accessible. Phil's pretty upset now, so Clint's not expecting to find him at all.

But then Clint goes back to his quarters, and Phil is sitting on his bed, and he realizes they've come so far out the other side that Phil's not even playing anymore, and the memory of when David was there, the thought of any similarity between the two of them, makes him a little sick to his stomach.

"You have to tell me," Clint says, and he can clearly hear the note of desperation in his own voice.

"I don't know what you want me to say," Phil says, and it's the worst thing he could possibly say, the most robotic, waiting for input to produce output, and it's the best thing he could possibly say, the most human, honest and lost. "It was need to know," he says, and if Clint never hears anyone else tell him that again, it will be too soon.

"Tell me if you're like-" his nostrils flare with anger- "that _thing_ ," he demands. "Tell me if you can feel ashamed. Tell me if you can understand why I can't shut up on the radio unless you make me. Tell me," he says, and his voice cracks, "if you came in here and _serviced_ me because you thought it would improve my job performance."

Phil purses his lips; he looks unhappy, disappointed. "I'm not going to stay if you think I'm a 'thing,'" he says, and that's all Clint really needs to hear. He sits down next to Phil, clinging to him.

"Jesus Christ, Phil, I-" He lets his head fall onto Phil's shoulder. "This has already been a hell of a day."

"I'm aware," he says dryly. Phil gives him an angry, concerned look. "What is this about 'servicing'?"

"Things got taken the wrong way, David made the mistake of being too logical, and he came on to me," Clint says, sighing. "He's not bad, he's just programmed that way." He holds up a hand. "Before you start, Tony didn't write that part of the code."

"I'd like to talk to the person that did," Phil says, in a dangerous voice.

"Get in line," Clint tells him. "I don't want to talk about anything right now," he says, and he finally kisses Phil, urgent and _exhausted_ , all at once.

Neither of them talks for a long time. Clint lays him down and makes love to him, slowly, quietly, desperately, because he has to make sure, has to see if every inch of him is still the same, just the way it was when he left. He needs to know if he's been denying it all this time, if he's always known, somehow, that Phil wasn't really alive. But it's just like it always was; Phil is just as warm and vital underneath him, just as strong and soft and steady. Clint thought the knowledge would change something, but it hasn't, not a single bit; the only thing that's different at all is the patch of new skin on his chest, paler than the rest of him.

Afterwards, Clint is lying next to him, his head resting on Phil's arm. "Why aren't you as fucked up as David is?" Clint asks. "I've gotta tell you, you seem like a big improvement."

"I like the hidden implication in there that I'm fucked up, just not as much," Phil tells him, and Clint rolls his eyes. Phil sighs. "Generation three was the last model that was an imprint from a real human," he tells him. "We got memory patterns, tastes, ideas- all they did was increase the logical capacity. At generation four, they started from scratch again, and the first thing to go was the emotions." Phil half-smirks. "Apparently, they made us 'unpredictable.'"

"They were right about that," Clint says. Phil is, hands down, the sneakiest bastard that he has ever encountered. Only three things are static about Phil: the food he likes, the side of the bed he sleeps on, and the fact that his solution will always be the most efficient and effective one, even if it involves doing something completely ridiculous.

"They also got rid of the free will for the Fours," Phil says, with a sad, distressed look. "I never liked the Fours."

Clint frowns. "That sounds fucking awful."

"Yeah," Phil says.

"You have no idea how glad I am you're back," Clint says, quickly changing the subject. "Really, absolutely no idea. I'm not sure how much capacity you have for knowing how glad I am, but I'm just gonna go ahead and tell you that I'm gladder than that." He's going to omit the fact that a good part of the reason is that he can go and _demand_ not to work with David anymore- he's starting to feel really sorry for the android, but not _that_ sorry.

"Don't get too attached," Phil says ominously.

Clint's stomach drops. He can't do that again, he can't possibly, he's already lost Phil once and he's just not going to do it again. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"They've got an Eight," Phil says, and he's starting to look upset. "I didn't even know they were up to Eight. They don't need a Three here."

"Phil," Clint says. "Tony wouldn't have spent four months fixing you if he thought we didn't need you."

Phil's brow furrows. "Four months?"

"Yeah," Clint says. "I take it Tony didn't tell you."

"I don't really know whether he forgot or if he was screwing with me," Phil says.

"It didn't feel like that long?" Clint asks, out of morbid curiosity.

"I was looking at Director Fury's face, and I closed my eyes," he says, his face going a little strange, soft. "I opened my eyes, and I was looking at Tony's ceiling."

Clint studies him. "Is it always like that when you sleep?"

Phil raises an eyebrow at him. "Are you trying to ask me if I dream of electric sheep?" he says, and Clint has to laugh at himself. "I don't need to sleep, but I get tired anyway, so I do. This wasn't that. I was." He looks pained. "Offline."

Clint can't imagine it, dying and knowing that you could do it again and again, not knowing whether you would ever come back. He doesn't believe in an afterlife, but at least death is _permanent_ ; you don't go to your grave wondering if you'll come out of it. "It was hell when we lost you," he says quietly.

"I figured," Phil says.

Clint pushes himself up on one elbow. "You're not useful."

Phil cocks an eyebrow, adopting the "You've got fifteen seconds to explain yourself" look that Clint knows so very well. "Thanks."

"Tony didn't bring you back because we needed somebody to do what you do," he explains. "We've got two guys who fill in for you, and they're doing fine."

"This is getting more and more flattering as it goes on," Phil deadpans.

"Don't interrupt me, Coulson," he says fiercely. "Tony brought you back because you're _you_. We can make do, but nobody's ever going to be the same. Nobody's ever going to be as good. I don't know if we would have treated you differently if we knew, but I doubt it. I hate David, and I thought he was human until today," he says, with a little laugh. "We're pretty attached to you. _I'm_ attached to you. I don't care if you're not the cutting edge model. The cutting edge sucks." Clint smiles. "Long live the old school."

Phil laughs. "Do you realize you just said an android was 'old school'?"

"We work with one guy who I'm pretty sure is still convinced his iPod has demons in it, another who hasn't used an ink pen in about the last ten years except under duress, and one who can use a virtual keyboard with ease but always gets confused by non-rotary phones," Clint points out. "We're not good with timelines around here." Phil snorts. "You're _not_ a thing. We could get ten more Davids and they'd all act the same way. You're not replaceable."

Phil leans up, kissing him. "You still talk too much."

Clint grins. "You're pretty good at stopping me," he says. "That's a feature, not a bug." Phil just rolls his eyes, pushing him down onto the bed.

**Author's Note:**

> As I am writing to you several months before the movie comes out, all the Prometheus stuff in here is based strictly on the viral marketing materials and lots of questionable tumblr discussions thereof.


End file.
